An Unknown Lover Part 16

"c.u.mly, _September 30, 19--_.

"Dear Captain Blair,

"Martin is engaged to Grizel Dundas. She is giving up thirty thousand a year to marry him, and he is going to let her do it. I sent Dorothea a cutting from the newspaper, which no doubt you have seen, so I need not enlarge upon the details of a 'millionaire's extraordinary will,' and the subsequent 'Romantic engagement. Millionaire's heiress gives up her fortune to marry well-known novelist.' (See _Morning Post_.)

"The marriage is to be in January, and we are house-hunting, answering letters of congratulation, looking at patterns, discussing dresses and wallpapers, and hats, and carpets, and what to do with drawing-room walls, and where to find new places for such trifles as sideboards, and buffets, and bookcases, and maiden sisters... They'll fit in somewhere, I suppose, and look fairly comfortable and at home in their new positions, but it will take a little settling down! The sideboard was made especially to fit a niche here; the maiden sister thought she was, too, but they've both got to move, and look distrustfully upon new corners.

"Grizel spent a week with us, then went off on a round of visits. She has left the old house and given up her claim to the money at once, so as to avoid all appearance of 'making a purse' for Martin's benefit.

They are preposterously happy, and have each explained to me most carefully that the other is _so_ anxious for me to live with them, and confessed that from their _own_ standpoint it might perhaps be better-- for a time at least ... and I have relieved their feelings, poor dears, by proclaiming at once that nothing could bribe me, either sooner or later.

"Now, Lonely Man, go down on your knees and thank Providence, fasting, that you are not a woman! You've done it heaps of times before, but do it once again. No man in the world could find himself in such a position as I am in at this moment, at twenty-six, _past_, after doing my duty in my appointed place for a painstaking eight years. For what have I gained--in what single way have I prepared myself for the journey ahead? I can keep house satisfactorily on a satisfactory income, but I shall have no house to keep; I can train servants, but I shall have no servants to train. In any case I could have learned as much in one year, and I've wasted eight! Not _wasted_, you'll say, as it was an obvious duty to look after Martin's home, but the fact remains that the years have gone by, and left me at the end, adrift, with the alternative of living on charity, or working for myself, and no work that I can do!

Too young to be a housekeeper, too old to begin a training.

"It is a big problem, and must be gripped. I have many invitations, enough to fill six months at least, but I've refused them all! I can't frivol with that big question unsolved, so I'm going away quietly by myself to think it out. The friends here are keenly interested, and proffer advice, tinctured with consolation as follows: 'Have you ever thought of dispensing? I knew a girl who had such a good post, and married the doctor. Of course you will marry, too, dear!'--'I'm told there's quite a big income to be made out of fas.h.i.+on designing' (Can't draw a line!). 'Then you could go on with it at home if you married a poor man. Of course you'll marry.' ... 'You might be a matron at Eton...' (Might I?) 'How would you like to be a Cookery Demonstrator?'

(Not at all!) 'So useful when you marry.'--'Charity Organisation Offices need Secretaries. Couldn't you get your brother to get the Bishop to write to say you'd be suitable?' (Story-teller if he did! I shouldn't.

Too much sympathy, and too little judgment, I'd give them money on the sly!)

"'Dear Katrine! promise me _one_ thing,--that you will _not_ be tempted to go on the stage!' (Vicar's wife having seen me act charades at a mild tea fray.) 'Wait patiently and trustfully, performing faithfully the little duties that arise, and in good time...' (_She means the curate_!!)

"Oh, dear, it's funny, but I'm not laughing. I'm trying not to ay. In the horrid, ungrateful way we have, I realise for the first time how well off I've been; how comfortable, and snug, and independent, and--_necessary_! That's the crux of it all. I _was_ necessary--now I'm superfluous!

"Well! here I am, you see, for the first time in twenty-six years really at grips with life, about to experience for myself the troubles and perplexities which so far have been mere matters of hearsay! I growsed and grizzled about the dulness of monotony, now I'm to taste uncertainty for a change. It may be very good for me; the vicar's wife says-- confidently!--that it will be. I can imagine myself pouring forth the most inspiriting sentiments to my next-door neighbour, similarly bound, but when _You_ write to me, _don't_ be inspiriting! I pray you, _don't_ make the best of it! Say that it's an unjust world; that brothers have _no right_ to get married, and chuck their sisters; that it's confoundedly hard lines, and that I'm a hardly used, unappreciated, despised, abandoned angel and martyr. That will buck me up, and give me courage to go on!

"But I want you to know one thing! If I could alter everything by a wave of the hand, nothing would induce me to do it! To see the cloud lifted, to watch blank eyes grow deep, and sweet, and satisfied again,-- that's a wonderful thing, and it would be a pigmy soul who did not rejoice. So think of me as I am, _really_ happy, and truthfully thankful, but naturally a little agitated as to personal plans. Here's an excitement for you! Guess what I'll be, when you hear from me next!

"Superfluously,

"Katrine."

Cable message from Dorothea Middleton to Katrine Beverley:

"_October 10, 19--_.

"Come immediately year's visit. Cable dates."

Reply cable from Katrine Beverley to Dorothea Middleton:

"_October 11, 19--_.

"Regret quite impossible. Thanks."

"Lebong, _October 23, 19--_.

"Dear Katrine,

"So you have refused Dorothea's invitation to come out to her for the next year. She, poor girl, is surprised and hurt; I, on the contrary, am neither one nor t'other. I knew it; felt it in my bones; could have drafted beforehand your reply--and what's more, dear, I know precisely by what train of argument the refusal came about!--I--Jim Blair--am the bogie! You are saying to yourself: 'A year ago I should have gone. It would have seemed the obvious thing to go to Dorothea. Her companions.h.i.+p, and the novelty of the surroundings would have been my best medicine and cure, but now it's impossible! There's that man! ...

Behind the friendly import of his letters, there's something else, the which I have strenuously ignored, but I have recognised it all the same.

If I went out now, leaving Martin married and content, he would think,--that man would think,--imagine,--perhaps even (he's audacious enough!)--_Expect_! ... My presence would give ground to these expectations. Therefore, Q.E.D., as a modest, self-respecting damsel I cannot go! I must stay at home. I shall be dull; I shall be lonely; I shall be disappointed,' (You _would_ be disappointed, Katrine!) 'But my self-respect will be preserved. No man shall ever have it in his power to say that I have travelled to the end of the world "on appro,"--that I have deliberately thrown myself in his way. Sooner a hundred times death or life-solitude! The question is settled. Let it rest. Selah!'

"Are you angry, dear? Are your cheeks red? Is there a light burning in those deep eyes? I'll bet there is, and don't I wish I could see it!

Don't be hurt with me for divining the workings of your mind. I'll make a clean breast of my own in return...

"I _do_ think! I _do_ imagine! I _do_ expect! It's not a new phase, it began a couple of years ago, when I fell in love with the portrait of a girl's face, and the portrait of the girl herself, as portrayed in her weekly letters. And I diagnosed the position from those letters, and thinks I:--'That Martin fellow will soon break loose, he's coming to life with a rush;--that little girl's billet is about run out. She will be needing another, one of these days. _I could give her another_!'

And I set myself to pave the way.

"So there it is, Katrine; you have it at last--the full and free confession of a man, who, bereft of force, resorted to guile wherewith to win a wife...

"I've been sitting for a quarter of an hour staring at that last word, and _thinking_!

"It seems an extraordinary term to use in connection with a woman one has never seen, but I know _you_, we know each other, better than half the couples who go to the altar. It's no good reminding me that this is only the fourth time I have written to you. I know that perfectly well, but will you kindly recollect that I have been sharing in letters written by you for the last six years, besides which, of course, I have had the advantage of hearing constant descriptions from Dorothea's lips.

It's more difficult for you; don't think I minimise that! If I seem wanting in consideration it is _only_ seeming; I realise only too well how hard it must be for you, poor, proud little girl. But you must come, you know! There's no way out of that. Be sensible, Katrine.

Don't get angry! Sit down and let me talk to you quietly, and show you how the question appears to me...

"I have never wanted to marry a woman before, though I've met scores of nice girls. I never felt for one of them the sympathy, the affinity I know for you. You are not in love with me; I don't expect it for the moment, but you are interested; so far as you've gone, you like and approve. You've shown that in your letters, and are honest enough to admit it now. Then why not give me a chance? Is there anything derogatory to a sane woman's dignity in meeting, at his own request, and on perfectly free, unconditional terms, a man who loves her, and wishes to make her his wife? You know there is not.--I ask for no promises; nothing but the chance to meet you on an ordinary friendly footing. If it eases the way, I promise to say no word of love for, shall we say three months? I'd prefer _weeks_--but it's your verdict.

"I want you, Katrine! I need you! I want a tangible, flesh and blood love, instead of its shadowy subst.i.tute. I want to take you in my arms, and hold you close till the red burns in your cheeks. I want to look down into those deep eyes, and to see them look back into mine. I want to stroke that curly hair, and to kiss those lips. Most of all I want your lips. I hunger to love, and I hunger to be loved. The thought of your coming would be like life; your refusal, blackness like death.

"Is there a soul at home in England who can say as much? And if not, are you justified, Katrine, in sacrificing me to your pride? You won't do it. You can't do it! Come to me, Katrine!

"J.C.D. Blair."

"c.u.mly, _November 20, 19--_.

"Dear Captain Blair,

"I have received your letter. What can I say? Honestly, I have tried to weigh your arguments,--not calmly,--that is impossible, but unselfishly, thoughtfully, from every point of view, and indeed, and indeed, I can't alter my decision!

"I hate the thought of giving you pain; I hate it so much that I will confess that it gives me pain also. I want to give in, and say yes; I want to leave behind the pain and the jar of the last few years, and sail out into the sun,--to see Dorothea, and yes! to see _you_ too; to continue our friends.h.i.+p face to face. I could waive the shyness, waive the pride; what I cannot do is to waive the _risk_! You are a man; you see, man-like, only the plain, obvious facts; you don't realise, as a woman does, the hundred and one difficulties and risks. You say that you love me, and you _do_ love the imaginary Katrine whom you have created out of paper and ink. What you don't realise is how tiny a difference between the real and the imaginary might turn that love to disillusion. I'm honest in my letters; I don't pretend; Dorothea has no doubt told you my faults as well as my virtues; my photographs are not flattered; because I am young, and healthy, and alert, I am better-looking in real life, yet if I walked into your room at this moment looking my utmost best, you might still feel a shock of disappointment! You might acknowledge that this woman was handsomer, finer, in every way more personable than you had imagined, but that would not soothe the disappointment. She had made unto yourself a dream, and she was not your dream!

"Such a little thing can do it,--a little inconsequent thing, a tiny personal peculiarity, a trick of manner, an expression, a _look_. It's not a question of whether it is beautiful and admirable in itself; it is a question of _attraction_, the indefinable, all-important attraction about which there can be no reasoning, no appeal.

"We discussed it before--do you remember? I told you there was every conceivable reason why I _should_ have loved one man who wanted me, but there it was,--impossible! and nothing could alter it.

"If we had met in the ordinary way, as strangers, we should have been able to test the presence or absence of this attraction in a simple, natural fas.h.i.+on,--now, the realisation of its failure on either side must bring with it misery and embarra.s.sment.

"Honestly, I can't answer for myself. I _do_ like you! There have been times--my loneliest times--when I have almost _loved_ Jim Blair,--the Jim Blair of my dreams, but how am I to know that he is anything like you? The face which looks at me from beneath the white topee in the various groups which Dorothea has sent is vague enough to lend itself to mental adaptation, the real one may be a very different thing!

"If I could see you for even five minutes, face to face, I could tell if it were _possible_; but as things are, I can't, and I dare not cross the world on the chance. I must find a niche at home, and work hard, and try to be of some use in the world. Perhaps some day, say on your next furlough, we may meet, if you still wish it, but in the meantime it would be better not to write. After what you have said, I should feel it unfair. The best thing you can do is to forget.

"Don't think me unkind. It seems brutal to write so coldly, especially to-day, when I have just received a letter from Captain Bedford in Egypt, and with it the most wonderful old bra.s.s tray--quite the finest specimen of its kind that I have seen. He explains that it is your commission, and sends me quite a genealogical tree of its history. From his letter he sounds a charming man. He says he returns in March. If I had been coming out, we might have travelled by the same boat...

"Oh, Jim, I _wish_ I could come--I wish I could! It's hard work looking on, and feeling eternally number three. Do you think I don't want to love too, and to be loved? Do you think it is easy to say 'no,' and throw away the chance? If only I could think it right! It is not pride which is hindering me, truly it isn't, it is more like cowardice. We have defied convention, and as a result have created an impossible situation, and I shrink from the probable pain and disillusion of a meeting in the flesh. Your letters have meant a great deal to me; I don't know how I should have come through the last few months without them. For my own sake I should not regret the episode, but it has been hard on you. At the bottom of my heart I guessed all along that it would lead to this. I _pretended_ that I did not, and deliberately shut my eyes, and now I must pay up. I care for you too much to run any more risks. I won't write again, and please don't answer this. You will hear of my doings through Dorothea, and I shall always care to hear about you; so it is not like saying good-bye.

"Don't be angry with me, I'm very miserable!

"Katrine."